


Eskel Discovers His Prostate

by Bourneblack



Series: Discoveries [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Coming Untouched, Drunk Witchers, Eskel Needs a Hug (The Witcher), First Time, Friends to Lovers, Griffins, Humor, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Multi, No beta we die like mne, No cheating, Outdoor Sex, Past Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx, Polyamory, Prostate Massage, Roach is So Done (The Witcher), Scenting, Sexuality Crisis, Threesome - M/M/M, Too Much Drinking, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:15:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25296040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bourneblack/pseuds/Bourneblack
Summary: Geralt crooks a finger, and Eskel leans over.“Eskel.”“What?”“You’re not gonna believe this shit.”ORJaskier learns the Griffins can fly in the worst way possible, Geralt spends slightly too much time talking about prostates, and Eskel discovers he doesn't need his hands to orgasm.(Can be read as a standalone)
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Discoveries [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1731319
Comments: 75
Kudos: 1198





	Eskel Discovers His Prostate

**Author's Note:**

> I got lost on my way to my other fics and wrote this guy. It's Geralt/Jaskier, but also with Eskel! Who is such a sweetheart!
> 
> Hope you are all safe and sound.
> 
> All of my Witcher knowledge comes from the main wiki. All of my Eskel knowledge does too. 
> 
> This is 12.5k! It's too long! 
> 
> Standalone readers: All you need to know is that Geralt and Jaskier are together and travelling the continent and Witcher's have dulled sexual needs unless someone's working their prostate, so they'd rather bottom.
> 
> Enjoy!

## Eskel’s Discovers His Prostate

“And it’s smell is as rancid as… oh. Did I use rancid already?” Jaskier asks himself. One of his hands was tapping the hard end of a quill against a booklet of parchment, the other was wrapped, loosely, around the trunk of a tree.

Jaskier flips through the older pages in his notebook, then makes a frustrated noise when he finds the word. “Damn, I have... Putrid? No, no, too similar. Fetid? No… why do all these words sound the same? What does the suffix ‘id’ have to do with things that stink?! The one time I _don’t_ want to rhyme something…”

Jaskier taps the quill as he thinks. “Rotten? Perhaps… though, _is_ it rotting? I don’t want to use rotten unless it’s _actually_ rotting… Geralt?!” Jaskier calls.

“ _What?”_ Geralt barks out from the ground.

“What’s this thing called again?” Jaskier asks. “And does it rot? You know… decay?”

“What’s thi — I’m _fighting,_ Jaskier!” Geralt jumps from Roach’s back to avoid the claws of a large, hairy, four legged beast. In his left hand he holds a loaded crossbow, in the right he clutches his sword. Roach immediately leaves the battlefield, remaining close by.

“And you’re doing _great_ , dear,” Jaskier cheers. “But when you get a second, could you —”

The beast attacks again, and Geralt meets it head on with his sword. The momentum from their clash pushes them both several feet back, Geralt rolling to recover and losing his sword in the process. He should really hold onto that better, Jaskier thinks.

“What the _fuck,_ Jaskier!” Geralt shouts. “ _Leave_!” He signs an Aard, blasting the thing further back and pushing it off kilter, giving himself enough time to collect his sword again.

“Oh pish, I’m in a tree. It’s not like this thing can fly!”

The Gods of plight and good timing decide to make themselves known, and the beast pushes off the ground and leaps into the air, massive wings unfurling from its arms. It lets out a bird-like shriek, then takes a long look at its surroundings, and zeros in on the bright red of Jaskier’s clothes.

“Oh come _on,_ ” Jaskier moans, scrambling to his feet on the rocking tree branch, trying to keep his balance. “What God did I piss off this badly —”

It swoops for him, and Jaskier yelps and jumps, aiming for the next tree over and missing horribly. He grasps blindly for purchase but finds none, and ends up slamming hard onto the ground on his side, knocking the wind from his chest.

Jaskier moans and rolls over onto his back, stars sparkling behind his eyes, only to watch as the beast dives down again, claws glinting in the sunlight. Jaskier has a moment to think ‘wow, this is a stupid way to die,’ before the bolt of a crossbow slams into it side, and it rolls in the air and lands in a heap, a distance away from Jaskier.

Geralt leaps after it in a potion filled rage, crossbow reloaded, and Jaskier watches in a daze as he fires again, destroying one of its wings.

The beast, now grounded, lets out another deafening shriek, and attempts to tackle the Witcher. Geralt expertly evades, and stabs cleanly into its side, then drops to a knee and slices open the length body in a long, fluid movement.

It collapses on the ground with a heavy crash, a few feet away from Geralt. It’s still hissing, but its body is weakening rapidly, blood soaking into the ground. Geralt stalks towards it’s prone neck and chops the head clean off, and it finally rests.

Geralt heaves for a moment, then turns his eyes on Jaskier, looking furious. The ferocity of his look is assisted by the dripping red sword, and the visible representation of the potion: eyes inhumanly dilated, skin thin and pale, inky blackness beating through his veins.

“It is wrong,” Jaskier asks, licking his dry lips, “To find myself aroused in this situation?”

Geralt’s glare intensifies to lethality. Jaskier tries for a grin, though he knows that it _could_ be argued that he _may_ have messed up this time. And yet, he still cannot suppress his instinct of supplying humor in the face of fear.

“Your eye makeup has smudged a bit there dear,” Jaskier continues. “And your hair, don’t get me _started —_ "

“It literally had _wings_ for _arms,_ Jaskier!” Geralt shouts. “And you decided to get into a fucking tree? It’s half a fucking eagle!”

“Half an eagle — so it _isn’t_ rotting. Hm…” Jaskier thinks out loud, wincing as he tries to sit up. “Wretched? Would have to change around the metaphor a tad —"

Geralt heaves a great breath. “Next time, I’m tying you to our _fucking_ _campsite_.”

“Oh _Geralt,_ ” Jaskier’s eyes widen slightly, and his grin turns sultry. “I had no idea you were so adventurous. It wouldn’t be my _first_ time, though perhaps the first time that it’s been done to me with purely sexual intent, and not a mix of both general kinkiness and the desire to steal all of my things.”

Geralt scowls darkly, kneeling next to him. “This isn’t a game, bard, this is your life.”

Jaskier brushes himself off, looking put out. “You’re the one that called it a _fucking_ campsite, Witcher.”

Geralt ignores him — which makes Jaskier pout, because he _thrives_ on being _un_ -ignored — reaching over and undoing the two buttons holding his doublet together. He then lifts Jaskier’s shirt to his armpits.

Jaskier lets out an interested hum. “Can’t say I don’t like where this is goin — Ow, ow, ow, owwwww Geralt, _ow_ ,” Jaskier whines as Geralt’s hand presses into his injured side.

“Hush.” Geralt admonishes, though he does prod more gently. “I believe your ribs are bruised,” he says. “But you’ll be fine.”

“What do we do? Wrap them? Apply a salve?” Jaskier asks worriedly. “I don’t think I’ve broken a thing in my life, other than several faithless marriages amongst nobles.”

“We have some stuff at the camp,” Geralt says. “Up, come on.”

Jaskier lets Geralt help him to his feet, and he steadies himself on a tree while Geralt goes to loot the body and collect Roach from her hiding spot. Geralt returns and gives Jaskier his notebook and pen, and Jaskier mumbles a thanks. He’s also given the empty crossbow to hold, which he complains about until Geralt offers him the Griffin head instead, and he decides it may be time to cut his losses.

As the rush of the energy of the fight leaves him, he can feel the pain more prominently in his chest, and he winces with every step back to the camp. As angry as Geralt is with him, Jaskier catches him looking back at him once or twice with worry.

Jaskier tries to give him a grin, but it really does fucking hurt. If Roach wasn’t saddled with the head of the beast, Jaskier may have been inclined to ask for a ride.

Halfway there, Geralt's worry must finally overcome his anger, because he stops walking, waiting for Jaskier to catch up.

Jaskier offers him a weak smile. Geralt sighs and puts an arm behind his head, then ducks to put another behind his knees.

“Up,” Geralt grunts. Jaskier hops obediently, and finds himself swept up in his Witcher’s arms.

“My hero,” Jaskier sing-songs, tucking his head into Geralt’s shoulder. The potion was fading from his person, skin warming up in the evening light. From here, Jaskier can hear the strength of his heartbeat, working overtime to flush the poison from his system, though still the thing beats in a third the time as Jaskier’s.

“My idiot,” Geralt deadpans.

“Ah, but you admit that I am _yours,_ ” Jaskier grins.

Geralt grunts, and they continue back to camp.

Back at the campsite, rotting Griffin head hanging from a regretting-her-life-choices Roach, they break into the ‘pain relief potion,’ which was really just a bottle of cheap, throat stripping whiskey, and lounge on Geralt’s bedroll after a dinner of dried meat. Geralt lies against a tree with Jaskier in his lap, staring into the dying fire, Jaskier plucking a song on his lute as the wildlife sings with him.

Geralt can hear Jaskier’s slight drunkenness in his voice, slurring some words together and snickering when he makes a mistake. He’s swaying slightly in Geralt’s arms, somewhat distractingly, and Geralt decides to return the favor, kissing beneath his ear. Jaskier breaks his song and swats uselessly at his arm, giggling and protesting.

“I’m trying to find a rhyme for _Griffin_ , silly Witcher. No distractions!”

“Hm… Schmiffin,” Geralt mumbles, biting down gently on the soft, fair skin of his neck.

“That’s not a word.”

“That’s never stopped you before.” Geralt starts walking his fingers up Jaskier’s thigh and under the lute.

Jaskier swats him again, but there’s absolutely no strength behind the movement. “No false rhymes! Not this time, this story is about a glorious, uh, battle, which is very serious, _quite_ serious —”

“Muffin?” Geralt pulls at the laces of Jaskier’s trousers, his other hand absentmindedly palming what he could reach of Jaskier’s ass.

“On what continent does Griffin rhyme with muffin?” Jaskier puts his lute to the side, and tilts his neck back. Geralt takes the invitation readily.

“The continent where you fuck me in the moonlight,” Geralt says. He squeezes the growing bulge under his palm, and Jaskier moans and knocks his head back into Geralt’s chest. “Assuming you are… up for it.” Geralt grins at his own pun.

“I suppose I could break for a moment,” Jaskier moans, giving him a look from the corner of his eye. “For the proper inspiration, of course.”

“Lay back on the bedroll,” Geralt murmurs, “And let your inspiration do all the work.”

“Oh I like the sound of that,” Jaskier says, letting Geralt maneuver him. “Though, I must say, it’s rather presumptuous for you to so readily assume you are my inspiration.”

Geralt rolls them both over and kisses him, laying him gently against the bedroll, very aware of his injured side. “For who else would you be singing, Jaskier? There _is_ only one White Wolf.” He pulls down the waist of Jaskier’s pants, and carefully lifts his shirt to reveal his chest, surreptitiously checking the salve-covered wound.

“For _whom_ ,” Jaskier corrects.

Geralt glares. “Your right hand could also be your inspiration for tonight,” he warns.

“You know what? What _is_ grammar, really? A series of words? Everything is made up! Things get misconstrued! I must say, I’ve always appreciated action more…”

Geralt tweaks a nipple to shut him up, and Jaskier giggles again, cock twitching between the two of them.

Geralt whispers against Jaskier’s lips, “Stay here,” and he heads for Roach.

“I’ll actually listen to that one,” Jaskier quips. His eyes follow Geralt as he grabs the lubrication, and he leers and Geralt drops his own pants, stepping out of them and laying them to the side.

“Gods you are gorgeous,” Jaskier whispers.

Geralt doesn’t respond, just sees about slicking up Jaskier’s weeping cock, and tossing the bottle to the side.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” Geralt says, then he positions himself over Jaskier, and slowly starts to sink down. They sigh in tandem as the head pops in, and Geralt moans slightly as he works an inch in at a time.

“Quite, ah — Far from being hurt, my d-dear…” Jaskier chokes out as Geralt works on seating himself. Geralt can’t help but look at the growing bruise on Jaskier’s side, and frowns at it. Jaskier seems to be okay, for now at least, so he starts a slow, strong pace, biting his lip as his cock sears past that spot inside of him, the burn and the pleasure mixing deliciously under his skin. He leans over Jaskier and finds his lips again, kissing lazily between long moans and hitches in breath.

It doesn’t take long — it never does, like this — for Geralt to find himself close, and he drifts a hand down to work himself over. Jaskier peers from under his lashes, face pink in the moonlight. The expression of pain is gone, replaced by pleasure and comfort, and that’s all the Geralt needs to let himself go. He comes with a gasp, a single, delicious wave, and he rocks his hips to extend the sensation, spilling himself all over Jaskier.

Geralt falls into a kiss, and they roll to their sides, Jaskier slipping from Geralt with a wet noise. Geralt watches eyes flutter shut as he takes Jaskier’s cock in hand, pulling his cock at the same pace as he was riding him, long and slow. Jaskier moans prettily under his breath, fingertips finding Geralt’s hair, trading kisses with him in the night.

“Stop getting hurt,” Geralt whispers in a moment of vulnerability. “I can’t stand to see it. _Please._ ”

Jaskier’s eyes flutter open at the last word, and he swallows, and he nods.

Geralt twists his hand just how Jaskier likes, and Jaskier’s spend joins his own on his stomach.

Before this, they were in Oxenfurt. Geralt had to admit he had a better time than he usually did. True, the students there were quite bold and intrusive, and looked at Geralt like a fascinating specimen rather than a person, but it was marginally better than the open mouthed fear he usually receives. Their sheltered upbringing gave them an unfound confidence when addressing him, though their tactless curiosity often found them cowering beneath one of Geralt’s glares.

The purpose of the trip to Jaskier’s Alma Mater was discovered when, after nearly a half a day of walking around the University, they ‘accidentally’ bumped into Jaskier’s bardic rival Valdo Marx. Marx eyed Jaskier, and Jaskier eyed him right back. But while Geralt prepared to be amused by the ensuing fistfight, he was caught off guard when, despite Jaskier’s many furious rants about the man, they greeted each other as if they had just met a long lost lover, giving each other a tight hug and an open eyed kiss on the cheek.

Jaskier introduced Geralt with pride, and Geralt found himself feeling like a piece of prime meat presented to another, as if he were being shown off. Though this was uncomforting, he had to admit that it tickled a little bit of vanity inside of him, that Jaskier would see him as something worth rubbing in Marx’s face. Marx took one look at him, and decided, gracefully, not to challenge his ex-lover’s new lover, instead inviting them both to dinner. To Geralt’s further confusion, Jaskier immediately accepted.

It was an extremely bizarre experience. Geralt ate and watched idly as Marx and Jaskier swapped intense, backhanded compliments with one another, trading barbs like blows of a sword, conversation ranging from topics such as Marx’s inability to perform a rather difficult piece on the lute, to Jaskier’s supposed lack of bedroom prowess. They even acquired a crowd that tittered at the worst of the insults, and Geralt realizes, belatedly, that this is what noblemen consider a fight.

It was difficult to tell the winner of the battle of words, if there was one at all. Yet, Geralt was oddly turned on by the verbal sparring, and fucked Jaskier roughly in the challenging bard’s bed after breaking into the instructor’s dorm where he slept, Jaskier switching between loud, drawn out moans, and muttering under his breath about how “I’ll show _him_ prowess.” They got caught halfway through, and neatly jumped out the window with their pants in their hands, howling with laughter as they ran across the university grounds, Jaskier’s name shrieked like a swear from Marx's mouth from the bedroom window.

Not a few days after, they found themselves outside a small town with a Griffin problem. Their money was tied up, and they were left to camp until Geralt could complete the contract. Now that he has, he leaves Jaskier to get them a room to rest for the next night as he presents the head to the Alderman at his home.

But the Alderman folds his arms, raises an eyebrow, and says, with disdain, “Just the one?”

Geralt glares, but the Alderman remains steadfast. “I was told there was only one,” Geralt grits out slowly.

“Well, there were stories of _two,_ not one.” Geralt’s not sure where he would have heard these stories, given that he found the contract on the board in the tavern. “And I’m not paying a cent until you do your job, Witcher.”

Geralt suppresses a growl, and drops the Griffin head at the Alderman’s feet. The Alderman jumps slightly, but quickly collects himself. He once again meets Geralt’s gaze head on with much too much confidence, and Geralt wonders if Jaskier’s songs have started to make him look soft.

“I’m not afraid of any of your kind,” the Alderman boasts, as if reading his mind. “Return when you have them both.”

He shuts the door in Geralt’s face, and Geralt seethes for a moment. Nevertheless, he has to return to the tavern and tell Jaskier the bad news. They don’t have enough to stay the night without the Griffin kill, but they don’t have enough ‘pain potion’ for Jaskier to sleep through the night on that rough ground again. Geralt will have to kill the second one today.

He finds Jaskier at a table, stirring eggs around his plate as he looks over his notes. He smiles at Geralt, and Geralt grunts and tells him the problem.

“Can’t afford a room without the money,” Geralt says. “Just food.”

Despite that, Jaskier continues to smile, as if staying another day in a shit town with him was the best thing in the world. “Perhaps I can play something, work out a deal for the night.”

“That could work,” Geralt says. “But we’ll need a stable, plus I need to save for a new horse. Roach won’t make it up the Trail to Kaer Morhen this year.”

“Poor girl,” Jaskier pouts.

“She’s been through a lot with me,” Geralt says. “There’s a farm in the East that doesn’t mind taking them in, gives them to children to ride.” The least he can do is give her a low stakes retirement. It’s more than he’ll ever get.

“Then I’ll get us a room, Geralt, don’t you worry,” Jaskier says. “I’ll play so well I’ll even get us a bath!” He grabs his lute from the pile on the ground.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Geralt warns, because _fuck_ a bath would be nice right now. “I’m going to kill the second Griffin. You are going to stay here.”

“Yes, dear Witcher, I will,” Jaskier says.

“…You will.” Geralt says dubiously.

“I will, I will. There’s a square down the road, I’m going to try and make a few coins there. Go, now, be my hero again!”

“Don’t be my idiot,” Geralt says, grabbing what he needs to leave.

“When have I ever —”

“Don’t finish that,” Geralt says.

Jaskier laughs.

Jaskier starts by playing in the square, but ends up walking down the cobblestone road, charming couples by playing little romantic pieces for them while they enjoy the midday sun.

Though he ends up with sunburn, he wrangles enough to negotiate a deal for a room that night. And yet, he does not need it, as his name is beginning to precede him — he’s stirred up enough fuss in town to get a room solely in exchange for the promise of evening entertainment. He keeps his wares, deciding to see how much a bath would be worth.

Jaskier turns from the bar to do a scan of the room, looking for a place to rest for a moment, and his heart stutters as he spots a dark, brooding figure seated in the corner of the room. He’s incredibly familiar, both in his features and his propensity for corner tables, and in the sword bag lying neatly against the wall at his feet. He’s finishing a cup of tea, looking quietly out the window, a book open and neglected on the table in front of him.

As if in a trance, Jaskier walks over to his table. There aren’t many people in at this time, so his approach is very well obvious. When the man turns to address him, and Jaskier catches sight of a pair of familiar, yellow eyes, he sucks in a breath. One his eyes is bisected by a great, twisting scar, a disfigurement that extends the length of his face. Other than that, though…

“You look just like him,” Jaskier breathes.

The man with the scar, who measured Jaskier’s approach as soon as it became obvious, and didn’t react to his tactless gasp at the sight of him, considers him carefully. “Like whom?”

“Except — except you use proper grammar!” Jaskier claps his hands together excitedly, and the man jumps at the noise. “Oh how wonderful, you’re a Witcher? Right?”

“…Yes.”

“ _Amazing!”_ Jaskier cries, and he sits down across from the man. “You have to tell me _everything_ you know, your travels, all of it! Gods, I hope you talk more.”

His expression darkens. “Why?”

“I’m being rude, I haven’t even introduced myself. Do you know Geralt?”

The man’s demeanor changes instantly, and he leans over Jaskier, alert and ready to strike. “What of him?” The man’s expression is objectively frightening, but Jaskier has never in his life been deterred by a dark expression or a thinly veiled threat. It’s a miracle he’s made it this long.

“We’re travelling together! I’m his bard.”

Slowly, the man sits back down, looking at him strangely. “ _You’re_ the bard,” the man says. “The one that Geralt complains about all the time?”

“Geralt talks about me?” Jaskier gasps.

The man laughs humorlessly. “He told us to look out for a brightly colored man, singing songs about our life.” The man eyes him critically, giving him a once over. Jaskier puts his arms out to his side, submitting to his inspection. He’s in purple, which is more deep then bright, but Jaskier supposed everything is bright compared to Geralt of ‘Black blends in better’-Rivia

“You’ve helped line my pockets more than they ever have before,” the man finally says. “For that, I am grateful.”

“Hello grateful, I’m Jaskier,” Jaskier holds out his hand.

The man snorts, and Jaskier can see a small smile fight it’s way to his lips. “Hello, Jaskier. I am Eskel.”

“ _Eskel._ Well, Eskel, I have accidentally come into some money, so, if you would submit to a few questions, I would love nothing more in the world than to treat you to a meal.”

Eskel stares at him incredulously, then shrugs, shutting the abandoned book and pushing it to the side. “Don’t need to ask me twice.”

Eskel, honestly, was only planning on passing through.

It’s rare to see an empty contract board in a tavern these days, now with so few Witchers left. In such a case, he usually remains for a little while in case someone needs to approach him directly, before carrying on his day.

He was working on his bestiary, but found himself distracted by the outside world for a moment, enjoying the way the sun streaks through the window to his side. He is distracted from his distraction by the appearance of a man dressed in violet, eyes wide as a child’s. The gasp is nothing new, but Eskel still fights the urge to duck his head, to hide the distorting mark of the disastrous child surprise he had known no better than to ask for.

He expected a contract, he expected a prodding inquisition, hell, he even expected to be kicked out of the place. He certainly didn’t expect to be picking apart an entire roast pheasant with Geralt’s bard.

And he certainly didn’t expect to be enjoying himself.

Jaskier is… exactly the kind of person who could handle following Geralt around. Persistent, optimistic enough to counteract Geralt’s pessimism, and equipped with enough selective hearing to maintain both. He’s surprisingly educated, quite handsome, and is full of questions for Eskel, which he answers easily about sips of black tea. Most were about Geralt himself.

“So you don’t all have white hair?”

“What do you _mean_ you’ve never pet a cat before?”

“You can control the dilation of your eyes?”

It’s probably the easiest lunch he’s ever earned in his life, and he even manages another cup of tea, Jaskier scribbling his words down in a booklet of parchment.

And then: “What happened to your eye?”

Eskel winces and scratches at the scar before he can control himself. “It’s a long story,” he says quietly. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather keep that to myself.”

“Ah,” Jaskier blinks, as if he’s left a trance. “Of course. Forgive me, I mean no harm,” Jaskier says. “My curiosity tends to get me in all sorts of trouble, you would _not_ believe.”

“You ended up following Geralt, so I do,” Eskel says. “It’s quite alright, someone being overly curious is the least I have to worry about in my life.”

Jaskier points at him with his quill. “Both you _and_ Geralt don’t deserve the vitriol spouted by most of the backwater people of the Continent. I’ve made it my life goal to change the way the world looks at you.”

Eskel raises an eyebrow. “So bold, and yet you don’t know me.”

“Anyone that Geralt considers a close friend is a friend of mine, as far as I know,” Jaskier says firmly. “Plus, you’re a Witcher, so I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

Eskel snorts. “I can’t tell if you are brave or if you are foolish.”

“And I say, why choose?” Jaskier grins.

Eskel chuckles, again. He’s been smiling more in these past minutes then he probably has all year. “You are, perhaps, slightly off your rocker, Jaskier.”

“And I,” Jaskier says with a flourish, “am taking that as a compliment. Can I ask you another question?”

“You’ve bought me a meal, you could ask me to marry you,” Eskel says.

“Don’t tempt me Witcher,” Jaskier winks. The word holds no negative connotations coming from his throat; it acts almost as a term of endearment. Eskel, inexplicably, finds himself embarrassed, unused to the blatant attentions of a man such as him.

Jaskier drops the act, unaware of Eskel’s embarrassment, and drums his fingers on the table, looking distraught. “How long does it take to fight a Griffin?”

Geralt is taking much too long to fight this Griffin. In his defense, it’s pissed that he killed its partner, and it’s also sitting on a nest of eggs, _and_ seems to have some postnatal superstrength that was making it harder to put down.

Despite the fact he’s on his back, that his crossbow had been ripped to shreds, his sword had embedded itself in a tree several feet away, and that his shoulder is bleeding steadily from a claw wound, he feels like he’s doing alright. The Griffin is flying over him, wings creating massive gusts in the sea of grass around them. Geralt watches as it circles, looking for the best place to strike.

It shrieks, and dips, and Geralt takes a deep breath and signs the strongest Aard he can currently muster. It’s been a long fight. The Griffin bounces back with a cry and lands on the ground with a hard thud, and Geralt leaps to his feet.

Geralt scrambles for his sword, yanking it from the tree just in time to get tackled by the beast again. He swears as he’s knocked back and the Griffin lands on him, filled with blind rage. He deflects a claw swipe with his sword and signs another Aard. It flies back half as far this time, the strength of his signs waning, but gives Geralt just enough time to stand again.

“Fuck,” Geralt pants out. The Griffin goes in for another tackle, and Geralt rolls out the way with a grunt, landing on his feet again. Another tackle, another roll. These actions are unsustainable — Geralt would tire long before it did.

The Griffin leaps again, and Geralt casts another Aard, this one only strong enough to knock it slightly off course, not to knock it down. It swoops around, and Geralt braces himself for another tackle, aiming to strike his sword when it takes them both down. But when the blow comes, it doesn’t bowl him over, or even make an impact. In fact, the Griffin is blasted backwards through the trees by an invisible force, shrieking as it snaps several trees along the way.

One look at the golden wall in front of him, slowly dissipating into the air, and he knows what happened. Only one person he knows can sign a Heliotrop strong enough to reach another person.

“You rely too much on your signs, Eskel,” Geralt says, a grin tugging at his lips.

“You’re welcome.” Eskel pats him on the shoulder, wrist rolling as he flicks his sword. “Come, let’s finish this job.”

Despite its fury, the Griffin is no match for the two of them. In moments Eskel had it shot down with the crossbow, and Geralt had its head, both of them moving like they had never left each other’s side.

When it finally heaves it’s last breath, Geralt turns to his oldest, closest friend and gives him a wicked grin. Eskel echoes it, and they’re in each other’s arms in a moment, blood be damned. They hug tightly, so much so that Geralt feels his spine crack. Damn, he missed him.

Geralt rests his forehead against the other man’s and inhales, just as Eskel does to him. Eskel’s scent is just as much a relief as it is every year he reveals himself to be alive. He’s surprised, (though perhaps he shouldn’t be), to catch the scent of Jaskier on him as well.

“How’d you stumble across me?” Geralt asks when they finally separate. Eskel looks well, almost a bit brighter than normal. He has no long term injuries on his person, no more so than last time at least.

“I was just passing through, but your bard pointed me towards you,” Eskel says, confirming Geralt’s theory. “He was worried when you hadn’t returned.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, going to strip and clean the body of the Griffin, shoulder stinging. “He shouldn’t be.”

“You know, he’s nothing like you said,” Eskel comments as he begins to assist. “Sure, he talked my ear off, but that’s a reprieve from the silence of the road, not sure how you find that annoying.”

“Hmm,” Geralt leaves it at that, and they fall into silence.

“You know, maybe I can see how _you_ can find that annoying.” Eskel quips.

“Also, he doesn’t listen,” Geralt says on their way to their horse. Roach was staring down Eskel’s young stallion, unimpressed by it’s posturing.

“He did just fine when we were eating together,” Eskel muses. “I’m hoping he’ll write a song about me, I could use the money.”

“He doesn’t listen when it matters,” Geralt says, raising his voice slightly, “given that he’s _here_.”

“That.” Jaskier steps out from behind the tree he was sheltering behind, a massive grin on his face. “Was. _Amazing._ With the golden shield? And the crossbow? Eskel you are a dream!”

Geralt smells pride in Eskel, and can’t help the spike of jealousy in his stomach, which crosses into his scent.

Eskel coughs to hide his laugh. “I couldn’t have done it without Geralt,” Eskel says, voice just barely mocking.

“Fuck off,” Geralt grumbles, loading up Roach and wincing as he shoulder protests with the movement.

“Geralt, your shoulder!” Jaskier had gotten close enough to see the damage the Griffin left on him, eyes finally focused on him instead of Eskel.

“It’s nothing,” Geralt immediately replies, not meeting his eyes.

“It’s _still_ bleeding, which is a big deal given that you can heal three to four times faster than a standard human.” Jaskier says. “Which I now know thanks to your lovely friend!”

Geralt scowls, jealousy coating his scent again. “I’m _fine,_ bard.”

Eskel snorts. “I’m going to go burn the eggs,” he says, leaving them pointedly alone, though Geralt can hear him laughing as he leaves. The asshole.

Geralt sighs, but lets Jaskier fuss over him. The shoulder is burning a bit, and he begrudgingly appreciates when Jaskier cleans the wound, bandaging it up without stitches.

“I don’t care what you say, I’m glad I sent Eskel after you,” Jaskier says.

“I could have handled it.”

“Yes, but with you and Eskel you handled it perfectly. Why don’t you Witchers team up more often? I mean bards are a solitary breed, you saw what happened with me and Marx, that was quite messy, but when it comes to life or death, more Witchers are better than less, yes?”

Geralt hesitates. “There aren’t many of us left,” he says quietly. “If we aren’t spread out, it means there’s people dying that might need us.”

Jaskier stays quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“It’s good to see Eskel,” Geralt says, trying to make Jaskier feel better. “Seeing him alive is always a relief.”

“You only see him over the winters?”

“Yes,” Geralt says.

Jaskier shakes his head. “What a lonely life. Never mind grouping up Witchers, we should assign each of you a bard.”

“I would never resign Eskel to such a fate,” Geralt deadpans.

Jaskier laughs. “Keeping me all to yourself, dear heart?”

“I…” Geralt has a sudden flash of thought, a heavy realization that being able to travel with someone is a privilege his brothers don’t share. A sharp reminder that he’s lucky to have this man.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks.

Always lacking the right words, Geralt kisses him instead, and Jaskier wraps his arms around his neck and returns it deeply.

“Perhaps not,” Geralt says quietly. Jaskier raises an eyebrow, but before he can say a word, Eskel coughs from the side.

They turn to him. His eyes are wide in shock, his scent surprised. Luckly, not disgusted.

“I burned the eggs,” he says after a moment of pregnant silence.

“Hmm.” Geralt grabs his damaged armor and drops it into his bag on Roach. Jaskier scrambles after him, looking between Geralt and Eskel worriedly.

“Come on, let’s head back,” Geralt says. “Eskel, I may need your help with the Alderman.”

Eskel nods, and watches in heavy silence as Geralt lifts Jaskier onto Roach, then joins him, Jaskier positioned in front. It’s telling, very much so, because Geralt doesn’t ever let others ride his horse.

Geralt keeps his eyes forward.

  
  
  


They drop Jaskier off at the tavern, then drop off their horses and take the head to the Alderman. Along the way, Geralt explains his belief that something else may be providing the Alderman with the confidence to stiff him on price.

At the home, Eskel sneaking around back to explore the house and figure out what he has, the Alderman remains as annoying as ever.

“I killed two Griffins,” Geralt explains again, now firmly in the Alderman’s home. “I will get paid for two.”

“I told you the price up front, Witcher,” he says, pushing the bag across the table to him. “This is what you get.”

“No.”

“You challenge me?” The Alderman stands, and rolls his eyes. “After we agreed upon a price?”

“For one, not for two,” Geralt says. “More risk, more reward.”

“Well, I have protection of my own, you see,” the Alderman says.

“You mean him?” Eskel comments from behind the Alderman.

The Alderman flips around quickly. Behind him the unconscious form of what looks to be a sorcerer lay at Eskel’s feet. Eskel raises an eyebrow at him, then up to the suddenly extremely nervous Alderman.

“I—it was for my protection, you see—”

“Double the original price because there were two,” Geralt growls. “And double _that_ for the duplicity.”

The Alderman swallows. “That will be difficult, with my finances—”

“Your house is the length of half the street,” Geralt snaps. “You will find a way.”

“Y-yes. Of course.”

Geralt watches the Alderman count out the coins, then leaves him be, Eskel hauling the passed out sorcerer over his shoulder.

“What do we do with him?”

Eskel looks at him a moment. “You could call Yennefer?”

“We could,” Geralt says.

“We could leave him in a ditch.”

“We could also do that,” Geralt says. Truthfully, Geralt is tired, and the latter option sounds a lot more lucrative right now.

“But it wouldn’t be right,” Eskel says.

“Fuck,” Geralt sighs.

Yennefer had cleaned up their mess in moments, hauling the sorcerer through a portal to do who knows what with him, poor man. They head back to the tavern which was filled with people, Jaskier singing in the center of it all, standing on a table in the center of the room.

He gives Geralt a wink when he enters, and Geralt raises an eyebrow in response, and Eskel watches the transaction with a strange sort of fascination. He never knew, after all this time, that men are something Geralt would be interested in. Learning that about his friend was… unexpected to say the least, and it has thrown Eskel for a loop.

They find the corner table and squeeze themselves into it, and order two mugs of ale.

Thirteen or so mugs later, Jaskier had cleaned up and gone up to the room, surprising Eskel by telling him he'd bought him his own, and letting his hand linger on Geralt’s shoulder for slightly longer than appropriate. Eskel’s plan was already in motion, Geralt nine drinks and swaying just slightly in his seat.

“So,” Eskel says after Jaskier had left. 

“So...” Geralt says, a little drawn out. Unlike Eskel, who’s holding rather well, Geralt is verily sloshed.

This was Eskel’s intention.

“About this Jaskier,” Eskel probes slowly. He’s not sure what he’s aiming to ask.

“About ‘this’ Jaskier,” Geralt repeats, eyes drooping. “Are there other Jaskiers I should be worrying about? Though, hm, that’s an idea…”

“You two are…” Eskel trails off.

“Yes.”

“Ok. Though I am glad you have found someone, I have to say that I didn’t know that you enjoyed the company of men in such a way,” Eskel says. If Eskel had known...

“I enjoy the company of who I enjoy the company with,” Geralt says, as if that answers Eskel’s question.

“He makes you happy?” Eskel already knows the answer to that one, at least.

“Mhm,” Geralt says.

“Good.”

Eskel takes a long, steadying sip of the ale, and lets slip the burning question.

“I… have to ask. How does that… work? With the, uh…” Eskel points his fingers at each other, and taps the tips together a few times.

A sly grin rolls over Geralt’s face. “You are curious?”

Eskel embarrasses slightly, but continues his line of questioning. “Do you go inside him? Does he, you? Does that not _hurt_?” Eskel had always imagined it with a little bit of fantasy, pretending that his partner enjoyed it, even if he couldn’t imagine they would.

Geralt crooks a finger, and Eskel leans over.

“Eskel.”

“What?”

“You’re not gonna believe this shit.”

Eskel rolls his eyes. “The last time you said that, you led me to a nest of Kikimore eggs before we were even old enough to wield our swords properly.”

“And was that not exciting?” Geralt arches an eyebrow.

“They had fucking _hatched,_ Geralt, and the nest of them attempted to kill us. Do you remember that? We had to get rescued by Vesemir, and he put us on chamber pot duty for the whole season. Chamber pots. For the whole castle. For a whole _season_.”

“…But it was fun.”

Eskel sighs. “That’s beside the point.”

“I promise, no chamber pot duty,” Geralt says. “Just listen. Apparently, there is a spot inside of a man, as there is a woman.”

Eskel stares at him, eyes wide. “No shit?”

“No shit. Well, it’s up the ass, so _some_ shit.”

Eskel blinks.

“So a bit like the chamber pots.”

“Geralt—”

“We try to clean up beforehand, but sometimes it’s impromptu…”

“You are really not selling this very well.”

“I’m not, aren’t I,” Geralt says to himself.

“No,” Eskel says.

“Shit.”

Eskel snorts loudly, and they both collapse into laughter.

“Okay, sorry. Shit—” Geralt cracks up again, and Eskel laughs, hard enough that tears prick at his eyes.

“Fuck, okay, Focus, Geralt,” Eskel gasps between chuckles.

“Okay.” Geralt hiccups, wiping a tear from his eye. “Okay. Eskel. It’s… it’s indescribable,” Geralt says. “You release in a fraction of the time, and with tens more power.”

“Fuck, really? Does it hurt?”

“The first time it did in the beginning, but after that, no,” Geralt says.

“Do you just use your fingers? Or…”

“Not just the fingers,” Geralt shakes his head, going to drink more and finding the cup empty. Eskel passes him his own.

“So you actually put a cock in your ass.”

Geralt nods.

“And it fits? And feels good?”

“You’re asking a lot of questions Eskel,” Geralt teases.

“I’m curious,” Eskel says, then embarrassment colors his scent as he realizes he’s just echoed Geralt’s earlier statement.

“You want to try it, don’t you?” Geralt leans in.

Yes. “I don’t know.” Why did Eskel start this line of conversation in the first place? He must have drank more than he expected.

“It’s easy to try. There are men out there that enjoy this. Some women too. I heard this story from Yenn…”

“I don’t…” Eskel huffs, self-deprecating. “I don’t have much luck getting in the normal way, Geralt. You don’t suffer my disfigurement.”

“The whores know,” Geralt encourages. “I know one who would be happy to help for a crown.”

Eskel doesn’t know how to explain that the working girls weren’t quite what he wanted. “It’s not so easy, even with hired help, to ask for something so personal. We don’t all have your underdeveloped emotional expression.”

Geralt ignores the barb, waving his ale mug around. “They’re fucking idiots, then. Not Jaskier-idiot, idiot-idiots.” Geralt says. “I know I would—”

Eskel freezes. Geralt freezes.

Geralt slowly sets the mug down on the table, but his eyes don’t waver from Eskel’s.

“I would,” Geralt says, voice almost a whisper. “If you wanted. I would show you. We could show you.”

Eskel’s voice gets lost somewhere in his throat. This conversation, originally intending to be a light grilling over Geralt’s partner and apparent preference for men, perhaps an introduction into the working of male on male sex, had doved headfirst into one of Eskel’s most buried fantasies.

“I…” Eskel doesn’t even know what to say. He never imagined Geralt would even ask such a thing in his life. He watches, almost as if in slow motion, as Geralt’s words catch up to him. His eyes widen, and he leans back and away from the table, looking lost.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Geralt,” Eskel says, but he has nothing to follow, brain stuttered out.

“I have to go. I have to—” Geralt pushes back from the table and storms upstairs, leaving Eskel to watch him leave in stunned silence.

Shit. _Fuck._

What was Geralt thinking, propositioning Eskel so bluntly? Eskel, his brother in arms, his closest friend, possibly the only one left. He could lose him, all to this. Perhaps not his friendship, but his closeness. True, the idea of discovering this pleasure and _not_ telling Eskel was wrong. But to offer so blatantly?

And what of Jaskier?

Geralt slams into their room, where Jaskier was tuning his lute, lying on his back on the bed, eyes shut, a small empty glass on his bedside.

“Why hello dear,” Jaskier says, eyes fluttering open. “How was Eskel? Did you two catch up?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. He forgets his intentions for a moment, distracted as he is by the way Jaskier’s fingers twist around his lute pegs, looking accidentally attractive with his legs spread on the bed.

Jaskier snorts, and struggles to sit up. “You’re completely smashed, aren’t you, big boy?”

Geralt doesn’t respond, instead aiming to sit on the bed. It’s imperative that Jaskier knows that, despite the fact he offered to fuck Eskel, he feels for the bard in a way that is much different than the other man he considers more of an old friend. But while such words may be simple to declare when sober, drunk as shit and blinded by Jaskier’s smile, he completely fails.

More specifically, Geralt fails to aim correctly, misses the bed entirely, and collapses ass backwards onto the ground.

“Geralt!” Jaskier says in surprised laughter as Geralt moans, annoyed at his sudden proximity to the floor. Damn the floor, this is not what he wants to be near.

Geralt pushes himself up to seated, then squints as the face of a worried, amused Jaskier fills his vision. He’s kneeling in front of him, grinning that lovely smile of his.

“Jas…kier.” Geralt slurs.

“Yes, darling?”

Geralt reaches out to stroke his fingers against Jaskier’s face and utterly misjudges the action, instead pressing the entirety of his hand over Jaskier’s left cheek. Geralt mashes the baby fat with his fingers, then, finding the expression it forces Jaskier’s face into humorous, he joins his hand with his other, squishing Jaskier’s cheeks so his lips are forced into an ‘O’ shape.

“You resemble a fish,” Geralt says.

Jaskier snorts. His hands come to rest on top of Geralt’s, thumb stroking his hand. “I think it may be time for water, and then bed.”

“I think… perhaps you are right, bard,” Geralt says.

But wait, Geralt thinks an unknown amount of time later, when he has somehow found himself in pants for sleeping, a jug of water in his belly and hair gently being combed behind his head. There is something he was meaning to tell the bard, something he must get out now when he has the lack of inhibition to do so.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says.

“Yes, dear Witcher?” Jaskier says quietly, sitting cross legged on the bed behind him.

“I’m lucky to have you,” Geralt says.

“And I, you,” Jaskier says. “You are _such_ a sweetheart when you drink.”

Geralt turns around to look at him, and Jaskier curses. Geralt forgot he was braiding it. Oops.

Jaskier is slightly annoyed, slightly amused, but overall, he looks. He looks…

“You slow my world down.” Geralt murmurs. “You see beauty in things that aren’t beautiful. Even after all these years, you approach every day as if the world is new and precious, and you give it, and me, your entire heart. It’s humbling.”

Any leftover annoyance drips away, replaced by astonishment. Jaskier doesn’t even seem to be able to respond for a moment. The poor man turns red, and asks, “Where is this coming from, my dear Witcher?”

Jaskier’s face turns stricken, and he lifts a finger in warning. “If you’re dying again, and you haven’t told me, _again,_ and the solution is actually one town over like that one time, I _will_ kill you,” Jaskier says.

“I’m not dying,” Geralt chuckles. “I’m drunk.”

Jaskier shakes his head, but smiles, and Geralt echoes it.

“It’s always a treat to see you smile like this, my dear Witcher.” Jaskier traces a strand of hair down Geralt’s face, then pokes him in the nose. Geralt scrunches it up, and Jaskier laughs indulgently.

Geralt hugs him. Jaskier holds onto him and takes his weight, and Geralt lets go.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, frowning.

Jaskier’s question is answered with a snore. He rolls his eyes, and pats the heavy man on the back.

“How much of that did you see?” Jaskier asks.

“I suppose from when you started to braid his hair.” Eskel responds, leaning in the doorway. “Need some help?”

“Stronger than I look.” Jaskier steals himself, then, with a massive heave, he tosses Geralt’s upper body off his shoulder and onto the bed. He doesn’t move after he lands on his back, half braided hair spilling onto the pillow around him.

Jaskier snorts, then scoots off the bed and picks up his lute to store in the corner. “Come in, please.” Jaskier says, waving Eskel in.

“I only came to check on him,” Eskel says, though he enters the room anyway. He looks on with amusement as Jaskier starts to remove Geralt’s shoes.

“You know, you’re cute when you smile,” Jaskier comments.

“I don’t think I’m what anyone would call cute.”

“Well,” Jaskier tosses Geralt’s legs to the side, and pats the end of the bed for Eskel to join him. “I’m someone, and I’m calling you cute.”

“I suppose you are,” Eskel says. He takes Jaskier’s invitation on the bed, sitting down gingerly and giving Jaskier a searching look. “How did you two first get together?”

“Well, he asked me if I fuck men, then sat himself on my cock for the next five months.”

Eskel chokes in laughter, his eyes scrunching as well, lighting up his whole face. It’s a good look on him, Jaskier noticies.

“It’s funny, being with him,” Jaskier says, turning his body to give Eskel his attention. “He’s so dedicated and emotional, and yet pretends with all his might he’s not. He’s got such a big heart, and so many years of despair hide it all from the world.”

“He’s fascinating,” Eskel agrees. “Do you love him?”

“Yes,” Jaskier says, easy as breathing.

Eskel nods. “He loves you, too.”

“I don’t know about that,” Jaskier sighs. “I’d like to believe.”

“Take it from me,” Eskel says, looking at Jaskier in the eye. “For one, he lets you braid his hair.”

“It’s utilitarian,” Jaskier says. “Also, I’m pretty sure it arouses him? He is a very horny person.”

Eskel shakes his head. “The act of letting someone sit so close to him, _behind_ him, when he’s at his most vulnerable, is a massive display of trust. Such as seeing him drunk, or even getting near him when he sleeps. For Witcher, that may as well be a proposal.”

“I have difficulty getting a read on him, at times.” Jaskier admits. “Most of the time, to be honest.”

“He doesn’t think of love like you and I might,” Eskel says. “It seems to defy any rule I had ever known of the emotion. But I do know that he cares about you a great deal, Jaskier,”

Jaskier rests his head on his hand, the flickering candlelight casting a warm glow on the evening. “Tell me Eskel. What was he like before all this? Was he always so… grunt-y?”

Eskel laughs. “Oh you would have loved him, Jaskier. He was endlessly curious about everything. His mind would flit from one subject to another in moments, so enthralled as he was by the world around him. It caused constant trouble with the older Witchers when he was first brought in.” Eskel smile dims. “But they got him to keep quiet, with the Trials. They put him through something extra, you know. Something more than any of the others. It changed him.”

“Irrevocably?” Jaskier asks.

Eskel turns to look at the man on the bed, face making a complicated expression. He doesn’t answer Jaskier’s question.

“When he wakes up,” Eskel says instead. “Tell him okay.”

Jaskier furrows his brow. “Okay? Okay to what?”

“Just… okay. He’ll know what I mean,” Eskel says. With that, the man stands. “Goodnight, Jaskier.”

“Goodnight, Eskel,” Jaskier responds, and Eskel departs from the room.

Geralt gets horny in the mornings. He was worried that the copious amounts of whiskey of the previous evening would have slowed him down, but he wakes up with that itch he can’t quite scratch all the same, and clumsily gropes at Jaskier, trying to find his ass.

“Someone had a good night,” Jaskier says.

Geralt hums and turns Jaskier over to face him. Jaskier lets him, meeting him for a closed mouth morning kiss. Geralt reaches into his pants, but Jaskier grasps his wrist tightly, and Geralt stills his movements. Jaskier’s expression is serious, the morning sun pale on his face.

“Not feeling it?” Geralt asks.

“No, but, well… Last night, Eskel came in here. Told me to tell you ‘okay’.”

Geralt retracts his hand, and swears, rolling over to sit on the side of the bed. Dammit. Fucking dammit.

“What did you talk about last night?” Jaskier asks carefully.

Geralt doesn’t know how to say this. Doesn’t even know how to begin this conversation.

“Tell me, Geralt.” There’s a warning in his voice. A rare tone, but one that Geralt knows not to take lightly.

“I have you,” Geralt says quietly. “But Eskel doesn’t have you. After this, he goes on his way, alone, up until I see him again at the Keep.”

“Okay... So we should make the best of the time we have,” Jaskier says. “I’m already planning on writing a song for him. He is such a sweet man.”

“Right,” Geralt says. “But… more than that.”

“Spit it out, dear.”

“Sex,” Geralt says.

“Oh…?”

Geralt turns away, looking at the wall. “That’s what he said okay to. What I offered. Sex.”

Jaskier is quiet.

Geralt jumps to explain. “Eskel, like most of us, turns to whores. He doesn’t have what you and I have. And I offered that to him. I shouldn’t have. Not without talking to you about it. And I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Jaskier’s tone is unreadable.

“Because if he’s anything like me, he hasn’t truly felt good in his life. We were too young before the Trials. After, our needs were dulled. But when you fuck me, it’s… I don’t get that feeling anywhere else. And I couldn’t escape the thought that perhaps we could give him what you give me, at least just for a moment.”

“You want to whore me out?”

“No!” Geralt turns to him, perplexed when he finds him smiling instead of angry. “Gods, no. I want to give him something he can’t get anywhere else. Because he deserves—because I can’t imagine this life without you anymore, and to think that he has to go through it alone is… he’s my closest friend, and I just want to… _fuck_.”

“You just want to fuck?” Jaskier teases.

Geralt sighs. “Please tell me you know what I’m trying to say.”

“Geralt, it’s okay.” Jaskier soothes. “I mean, should you have _told_ me when you were going to ask your best friend for a threesome? Yes. But you were very, _very_ drunk, and you immediately came upstairs to try and apologize, so I’m not going to look too much into it.

“For me, it sounds like you want to make someone you care about feel good. Well, really, it sounds like your friend hasn’t had an orgasm in nearly a century, and you and I both have the power to give him one.” That concept makes sense to Jaskier. He’s never been one to tie together sex with romantic love.

“I wouldn’t ask for just anyone,” Geralt says.

“I know.”

“And I’m not—I don’t make a habit of offering this to others.”

“I know that, too.”

“But it’s… Eskel. And you’re you. And putting that together makes the most sense in the world.”

“You are fascinating, my dear Witcher,” Jaskier says. “And I say yes, because Eskel is a sweetheart and deserves the whole world, just like you.”

Geralt sighs in relief. “You’re sure?”

“Yes!” Jaskier chirps. “Wouldn’t be my first orgy, either, would you believe!”

“You were in an orgy?”

“I was! It wasn’t too fun. Very sweaty, also, my throat was cut at the time because someone refused to face his nightmares and instead released a djinn—”

“That’s enough,” Geralt mumbles. How the fuck could he forget that? Jaskier laughs, pushing Geralt down to the bed.

“It’s so easy with you,” Jaskier grins, stripping off his pants and grabbing the lubrication.

Geralt’s eyes dilate when he realizes he’s still going to get fucked, and pulls off his own clothes, accepting Jaskier’s naked body between his thighs and kissing him thoroughly.

Jaskier lubes up Geralt’s channel, then himself, but before he can press in, Geralt pauses him.

“Eskel can probably hear us.” Geralt’s whisper is nothing but rasp. “If he was really listening, which he may be.”

Jaskier’s lips brush his ear. “Does that bother you?”

Geralt shakes his head. “Does that bother _you_?”

“No,” Jaskier says, and he kisses him.

They move with the fluidity of a couple used to each other, but no less excited. Jaskier on his knees, Geralt on his back, cock in his ass, head tossed back.

The noises Geralt makes when he’s being fucked are addictive. Whether it be the short, vulnerable hitches in his breath, or the occasional surprised gasp when a particular rhythm has set him up just right, or, and this is the best, the snapping open of his eyes, the widening of his pupils, the twist of his face as he bucks and comes in his hand, beneath Jaskier, _because_ of Jaskier.

Jaskier finishes on his abdomen, and kisses between his brows, then on his nose, then on his lips, finally. Geralt responds lazily, biting Jaskier’s lip when he’s had enough, and Jaskier falls onto his chest, resting for a moment.

In another room, Eskel lies in bed, eyes closed against the rising sunlight, and listens to the moment Jaskier pushes into Geralt.

Geralt moans like he’s just come home, a noise Eskel has never heard come from his throat. Jaskier curses harshly under his breath, and Eskel listens to them slowly, carefully move. Listens to them speed up, to Geralt’s cracking voice and desperate gasps. Geralt rarely ever sounds like anything, and Eskel doesn’t think he’s ever heard him so breathless, especially since that last, hair whitening Trail. But he can hear Jaskier’s movements, the frantic increase in speed, the sound of his fingers ripping fabric.

Eskel wonders what it feels like. He wonders what it looks like. Geralt breathless, desperate, looking up at him, sounding like that...

“I found you a bath,” Jaskier says a little while later, head tucked on Gearlt’s chest.

“Fuck,” Geralt says, with a little smile in his voice, and rolls them over and kisses Jaskier thoroughly. “Join me?” He asks, coming up for air.

“I think I’ll go find Eskel,” Jaskier says instead.

“Hm…” Geralt says. “Okay.”

Jaskier leaves Geralt to deal with his bath and goes searching for Eskel. He’s not in his room, but he is in the tavern, eating breakfast and writing in a worn book.

“Good morning,” Eskel says, putting his things aside. “Geralt joining us?”

“I left him upstairs with a bathtub, so he probably won’t,” Jaskier winks.

Eskel rolls his eyes. “Kaer Morhen has hot springs in the basements, and he spends half the winter up to his nose in them.”

“Sounds typical.”

“You should come one winter if you get the chance,” Eskel offers idly. “We’re all sick of one another, a fresh face would be fantastic.”

“Perhaps I will,” Jaskier says. “I could use a break from all of my leisure with some nice, hard labor.”

“Oh, we’d probably put you in the kitchens or something,” Eskel says. “All we eat is stew, it's an easy job. Perhaps make you play us a tune each night.”

“All the stew I can eat, all the music I can sing…” Jaskier says

“All the booze you can drink,” Eskel adds.

“Really? Now we’re talking.”

Eskel snorts “How do you think we get through it?”

“Why _haven’t_ I gone yet?”

“Likely the perilous trail that leads to the gate,” Eskel says. “But Geralt can get you up there, and if he doesn’t, feel free to find me. I’ll give you a ride on Scorpion.”

“We should keep in touch,” Jaskier says brightly. “Here, I’ll give my address at Novigrad, they usually know how to find me.” 

Eskel turns his book to Jaskier, and Jaskier quickly writes down the tavern in Novigrad he owns. He may not be there often, but it’s better than nothing.

“Though, _speaking_ of stallions,” Jaskier says slowly. “I heard about you and Geralt’s conversation last night.”

Eskel laughs. “How kind of you to call us stallions. What of it?”

“And,” Jaskier says, “I think that there is no time like the present.”

Eskel swallows visibly. “I guess not.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow at Eskel’s nervousness. “You should go into this wanting to, Eskel, not like you’re walking to the gallows.”

“I don’t have a lot of sex,” Eskel says. “And, though it’s easy to blame my low libido on the mutagens, I think I’ve known for a while that that’s not the case.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means…” Eskel sighs. “I’ve never thought of women the way I was supposed to. I’ve never thought of men the way I was supposed to. I never understood how it was all supposed to work, being with a man, and I come here, and I find that you and Geralt have figured it all out already. And now it’s here, and I’m… I never thought I’d get this, you know?”

Jaskier feels a wave of sadness for the Witcher. “There is no ‘supposed to,’ trust me. ” Jaskier says gently.

“You know what I mean,” Eskel says. “But you are right, bard. No time like the present. I’m ready.”

  
  
  
  


Jaskier and Eskel enter the room as Geralt is drying his clothes, meditating naked by the fire. He acknowledges them with a hum when they arrive. “The water is still warm, if anyone needs it,” Geralt says.

“I don’t think we’re looking for a bath, Geralt.” Jaskier says. 

Geralt turns his head at the tone of Jaskier’s voice. Jaskier is sitting on the bed, legs crossed, and Eskel is leaning against the far wall.

Geralt stands, and watches Eskel’s eyes take him in without shame, the glance more than just cursory, taking in his body with undisguised, eager interest.

“What are we looking for?” Geralt asks, though the answer seems obvious.

Eskel meets Geralt’s eye again, then pulls off his own shirt, revealing a chest he’s seen a thousand times, and, in a way, for the first time ever. Geralt wets his dry lips.

“You’re running this show, Eskel,” Jaskier says, tossing his shirt as well. “What do you want? Geralt? Me? Both?”

“Both,” Eskel says, and Geralt swallows, knowing he can smell his arousal. Eskel drops his pants, and the scent heightens.

“That’s a very bold start, but perhaps one of us should go first?,” Jaskier supplies.

“I want you Jaskier, inside of me.” Eskel says. Geralt thinks that sounds perfect. “Where do I go?”

“How about,” Jaskier says, thinking, “You on your knees, as it’s one of the easiest positions to begin. Me at your back, and Geralt at your front.”

To Geralt’s surprise, Eskel nods.

“If Geralt trusts you, I trust you,” Eskel says, answering the scent of Geralt’s surprise.

Geralt watches as Eskel kneels at the end of the bed, sitting on his ankles, facing the headboard. Jaskier positions himself behind him, hands wrapping gently around Eskel’s body, dragging his fingernails on the skin. Leaving Geralt to take his place at Eskel’s front.

He kneels in front of him, and meets Eskel’s eyes, and says, “You’re not going to believe this shit.”

Eskel laughs, a little hoarsely. “You really do get me in the strangest situations, Geralt.”

“You wouldn’t have it any other way.” Geralt reaches out to tuck his hair behind his ear, worried perhaps the movement was too intimate. Eskel swallows hard, looking away, and Geralt pulls his hand back.

“Are you ready, dear Witcher?”

Geralt doesn’t know who he’s talking to. Perhaps them both. Geralt nods anyway.

“Yes,” Eskel says. “Just…” he exhales, a shuddering breath. “Tell me exactly what you’re doing,”

“I’m slicking up a finger,” Jaskier says. “I’m going to put it against your back, you feel it?”

Eskel nods. The movement from behind him is obscured by his body, so all Geralt has to go on is the look on Eskel’s face, and Jaskier’s soothing voice doling out descriptions.

“Alright, I’m moving it down.”

Geralt sees Eskel’s body tense, and he reaches out to comfort him, running his hands over his body.

“Pushing in…” 

Eskel hisses, eyes shutting tight. “Burns,” he mutters.

“Push out as he’s pushing in.” Geralt says. “There’s a muscle inside, try to relax it.” Having decades of muscle control helped Geralt often in times like this, it should help Eskel as well.

“Better,” Eskel says, his face no longer scrunched up in pain. 

Eskel makes an odd expression, looking vaguely uncomfortable as, perhaps, Jaksier begins to pump his finger.

“It’s weird,” Geralt says, in lieu of anything.

“You could say that.” Eskel sounds dubious. His eyes flick to Geralt’s, then flick away again.

And then, Eskel jumps slightly, and his breath catches.

“Oh… that…” Eskel breathes. And Geralt smiles slightly.

Eskel’s hands reach for Geralt, and Geralt feels and sees his breath speed up in his chest.

“I’m going to work in another,” Jaskier says.

Eskel nods, then exhales harshly, biting his lip. He meets Geralt’s eyes again, tension in the lines of his face. Geralt runs his hands up to Eskel’s neck, letting his thumb rub circles behind Eskel’s ears. Geralt’s throat goes dry as he watches the tension around his eyes fade into pleasure, as his body gets used to Jaskier.

Eskel bites his lip, hiding his noises, but Geralt starts to hear a barely-there hitch in his breath, desperate and so unlike anything he’s ever heard from Eskel’s mouth. He shifts slightly as he begins to harden between his own legs.

“One more,” Jaskier says.

A moment passes, then Eskel’s eyes tighten again, and he hisses in pain, hand squeezing Geralt’s shoulder tight.

“Eskel?” Geralt asks.

“I’m okay,” Eskel breathes

“We can just use two fingers, it’s similar—.”

“I want to feel what you felt this morning,” Eskel snaps. “The way you sounded when he pressed into you. I want that. Jaskier, keep going.”

Geralt shares a look with Jaskier—his eyes are blown wide.

“I was wondering if you heard,” Geralt says suddenly. “I wanted you to.”

Eskel looks up at him then, teeth digging into his lower lip.

“The idea of you listening to me and Jaskier… wondering what it would be like to be between us… I think it’s what got me off in the end.” Geralt has absolutely no idea what he’s saying, but Eskel’s silence finally breaks and he lets out the sweetest, most breathless moan.

He looks away again, but Geralt grasps his chin and forces his face back.

“Look at me,” he demands. 

Eskel’s eyes go dark, and his arousal spikes. Geralt loosens his hold, but keeps his hands on his face, running his fingers over his scar, burying them into hair, anything he can touch.

His thumb hooks Eskel’s lip, and Eskel’s opens his mouth as sucks it in. Geralt swears, feeling his cock stir. He releases after a moment, but Geralt can’t help but squeeze his own cock, soft as it is.

“I think I’m ready,” Eskel says.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Jaskier chirps, and Geralt huffs a laugh. 

“I’m lining up,” Jaskier says. “You should lean over a bit, let Geralt take your weight.”

A bit of shuffling, and Eskel is more horizontal, hands clutching onto Geralt’s chest.

“Pushing in…”

Eskel gasps, then swallows his tongue as he tries to keep still. Geralt supports him, letting Eskel’s head fall to his chest as Jaskier inches his hips back and forth. Geralt has a view now, Jaskier’s cock disappearing inch by inch into Eskel’s body.

“Hurts,” Eskel says.

“Breathe,” Geralt says. “Push out.”

Eskel does so, allowing Jaskier to sink in further. Jaskier moans, rocking his way inside, looking for the best line to Eskel’s sweet spot.

When Eskel’s head tosses back and he meets Geralt’s eyes again, he knows he found it.

“I…I…” Eskel pants, his eyes rolling back. Geralt holds him up with a hand under his chin, thumb against his lips, the other holding onto his own cock, just to have something there.

“Slowly, Jaskier,” Geralt rumbles. Eskel’s eyes focus on him, his pupils blown wide. Between them, his cock was beginning to grow, pressing up from the thatch of hair it lay in.

“It’s…” Eskel breathes. “ _Oh_ …”

Eskel’s eyes fall shut. His hands struggle to find purchase on Geralt’s chest, and he eventually settles on grabbing onto Geralt’s arms. His body begins to rock with movement, Jaskier visibly picking up the pace.

And yet he still hides his noises, just a barely there exhale of air making its way out of his slightly parted lips.

“Eskel…” Geralt breathes. He looks up at him, eyes bright and desperate, and they draw Geralt down.

There’s a moment’s hesitation, the same unasked question being shared between the two of them. A few jerking, aborted movements of their heads, until Eskel suddenly lunges up, and presses their lips together.

Eskel’s lips are unskilled, loose with unspilled moans, and Geralt slides his tongue inside, swallowing them all down. Eskel’s body rocks back and forth against his lips, a reminder of what’s occurring behind him with every uneven press. It’s a desperate kiss, sloppy and incredible, and Geralt closes his eyes and doesn’t let go.

Jaskier never thought he’d be distracted from sex while he’s actually having it, but well, here he is.

He’s moving a bit more firmly now, though the intensity of the moment lay mostly between the two men in front of him, lips pressed tightly together, hands searching each other’s bodies in a tight, desperate fashion, as if each had the separate mind to check that the other was still there, still okay, still alive, breathing and beating.

“More, Jaskier,” Jaskier barely hears from Eskel’s mouth after they separate, his voice a whisper across Geralt’s skin. Jaskier obeys, beginning to set a steady pace, Eskel’s ass dragging along his cock like it’s planning on never letting go. His virgin hole is nearly painfully tight, and it doesn’t help that Eskel keeps clenching around him, perhaps in reflex, squeezing the life out of Jaskier. Possibly quite literally, if he doesn’t let up soon.

Eskel moans despite the tightness. He pulls Geralt closer, tucks his head in the crook of his shoulder, as Geralt wraps a hand around the back of his neck, just resting there. He locks eyes with Jaskier.

“How does he feel?” Geralt asks.

“Like a fucking vice,” Jaskier grits out. “Like he doesn’t want to let go. How do you feel, Eskel?”

Eskel gasps, then stifles the noise.

“None of that, Witcher,” Jaskier demands. “Let me hear you. Let Geralt hear you.”

Eskel whines in the back of his throat. Jaskier takes a chance and speeds up his movements a little more, driving into Eskel’s sweet spot, and Eskel cries out, much louder this time.

“That’s right Eskel,” Jaskier grins, feeling a little feral himself.

Eskel moans, the noise stuttering slightly with Jaskier’s movements. He begins to push back in time, and Jaskier grins, feeling him loosen his vice grip around his cock.

“That’s it, fuck, Eskel, yes…” Jaskier encourages him. “Let _go._ ”

Eskel’s moans match when Jaskier picks up his pace. He’s never felt so blissed out before in his life. There is none of the discomfort or burning from before, just pressure and sweet, blinding sensation ratcheting up his spine. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, nearly overwhelming, his cock rock hard and bobbing in thin air.

He’s dancing a strange new dance with Geralt. Rarely did he dare to imagine those lips on his, but now it’s all he can think about, his arousal all he can smell. He lunges again for Geralt’s lips, and clumsily meets him in another kiss. He’s embarrassed about how bad he is at kissing — he hasn’t had very many, few others have felt the desire to cater to him. But Geralt doesn’t mind, guiding him along, taking over.

Geralt looks down at him when he breaks the kiss, and Eskel can’t look away, even as the most embarrassing of noises spill from his throat, even as he can’t quite close his mouth, can’t quite keep the whine out of each hitch of his breath. He feels undone, Geralt looking at him with amazement, and inside, he feels himself hurtling towards a cliff he can barely comprehend, pressure building unreasonably high, bordering on uncomfortable.

“I…need…” Eskel gasps out.

“What is it?” Geralt asks, but it’s too late.

“Oh! Oh...” Eskel moans. The tension peaks, and for a moment Eskel is teetering on a pin edge. And then it releases, and he unwinds, and between his body and Geralt’s, his cock bobs as he cums in long, white bursts. He goes still as it drools out of him, knows he’s probably dragging his fingers way too deep into Geralt’s arms, knows he’s making noises he should be cognizant of, but his whole body is alight, the pressure release on his cock is so much more powerful than it ever has been, and he can barely see, barely think, as his orgasm goes on for ages, wracking his entire body.

“You…” Geralt breathes in shock.

Jaskier’s thrusts suddenly grow painful, and Eskel winces. “Stop,” Eskel says. “Out, pull out.”

Jaskier carefully exits him, and Eskel pants into the air in front of Geralt’s chest, looking at his white spend on the bed sheets, Geralt’s own cock twitching on his thigh.

“Are you okay?” Jaskier asks, a hand tracing up and down his hip.

“He came,” Geralt explains to him. “He finished, not a finger on his cock.”

Jaskier makes a disbelieving noise. “Well fuck, that must have been a sight. Eskel, how are you? How was it?”

Eskel laughs. “How _was_ it? The fuck kind of question is that? Mother of the Gods, I need to lie down.”

Twin laughs echo over his head, and they lead him down to the bed, letting him try and catch his breath. His whole body feels emptied out, and even his head is quiet for once.

Eskel watches with lidded eyes as Geralt pounces on Jaskier, kissing him deeply before leading him down to the bed next to him. His hand finds Jaskier’s cock and strokes fast expertly, and Eskel can hear, under his breath, Geralt whispering ‘thank you,’ into Jaskier’s ear, Jaskier’s fast, hitching breath the only response.

Jaskier comes hard and fast, Geralt working him over with expert hands until he’s well and truly worn out. Eskel watches him collapse, boneless against the bed. Jaskier meets his eye and winks, before letting his eyes fall shut. He turns to look at Geralt, who is watching him intensely. Geralt leans over, and they kiss, again, Eskel once again feeling sloppy and hurried against Geralt’s lips.

“Relax,” Geralt says.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Eskel admits.

“Slowly,” Geralt says. And they take it slowly.

Their kisses grow long and languid, blending into one another, until Eskel falls asleep. When he wakes, it’s not much later — the sun still having yet to set. Jaskier is out cold, snoring on the bed next to him. Geralt is nowhere to be found.

Eskel feels that he’s taken up enough of their intimacy, feels the itch of travel in his chest. He pulls on his clothes, and spares a last, longing glance at Jaskier, before heading to his own room.

He doesn’t even get out the door before he runs into Geralt, plates of food in hand.

“You’re going?” Geralt asks.

“I didn’t know if you two wanted your own space,” Eskel says carefully.

“No.” Geralt says. “We don’t.”

“So can —”

“Stay,” Geralt says, pushing himself and Eskel back into the room, shutting the door behind him. “For as long as you need. Stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Is it Heliotrop? Is it Quen? That's for you to decide!
> 
> Hope you liked! <3


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